November 1st sees the release of a gorgeous boxed set of steamy historical novellas, including my own ‘Master of the Moor’ (set on Dartmoor in 1903). More news on that soon. Meanwhile, here’s a steamy snippet to wet your appetite.
Here, Lord Mallon recalls his encounter with the mystery woman on the train from Marseille to Paris, having no idea that she’s already a guest under his roof and that they are soon to be thrown together for the duration of the festive celebrations.
He’d been wound tight and a good fuck had been exactly what he’d needed. She’d been so very wet and so very willing. Just thinking of it made his balls ache. Not a single evening had passed without him recalling that encounter. She’d certainly earned the money he’d left on the banquette.
A wader was calling, somewhere in the rushes – a curlew, perhaps. How often had he closed his eyes in the desert and imagined the sun glinting on this very water, the russet of the hillsides and the low hum of insects on the lake. He’d always come here when he’d wanted to be alone. The Hall might not have existed, hidden from view.He thought of her again, the way she’d looked up, briefly, before rimming her lips over his cockhead and down the length, pulling him inside.
Damn and damn!
Unbuttoning his breeches, he sought out the bare skin, encircling his girth. He took his hand lower, clutching the base of his cock and under his balls, squeezing as she had done.
She hadn’t pulled away as he’d shuddered his orgasm. Instead, she’d brought her mouth down almost to the root, taking his pulsing down her throat, tonguing the underside of his spurting cock, swallowing his release. It was impossible for him to replicate the sensation of her willing mouth – engulfing his thickness, tasting his brine.
There was only one thing for it. Shrugging off his clothes, Mallon entered the water, wading out, gritting his teeth against the chill. Swiftly, he ducked his shoulders under, then his head, rising with a gasp and more cursing. He swam out, concentrating on propelling himself forward. He’d have her out of his system if it killed him. He’d never lost his head over a woman and he was damned if he’d allow it to happen now.
Not even a woman – but merely the remembrance of one! Damn ridiculous!
Yet he was thinking of her still. Afterwards, she’d taken off every stitch. It had been so dark, he hadn’t realized until she’d sat across his lap and his hands had met the silken nakedness of her back. She’d guided her breast to his mouth and he’d drawn its peak erect – had suckled as she’d angled her hips to take him inside her velvet warmth.
Reaching the shallows, Mallon stood, finding his footing in the mud, the water lapping beneath his buttocks. He needed his release.
Thinking of her breasts, he took his cock in hand again. There had been a mole, beside her satin nipple, the contours of which he’d traced with his tongue. She’d pressed to his chest, her stomach brushing his, moving her hips to take him deeper.
Despite the water’s chill, Mallon was burning hot. He could feel his seed rising and pumped faster. His pleasure was mounting, his own hand working the organ between his legs as her cunt had worked him.
As he’d ejaculated, she’d pulled back his head and crushed to him in a kiss – to stifle his cries and her own. She’d ground down upon him, taking every last drop to her womb.
With a final tug, Mallon groaned, spurting into the water.
More news in October on ‘Master of the Moor’ – and the fabulous boxed set in which it’s releasing.